tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43457682626805987362018-03-06T00:49:10.064-08:00~my life as i see it~kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.comBlogger176125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-23193325314807778222013-08-21T15:32:00.000-07:002013-08-21T15:32:04.269-07:00transitions.i have a new space. this one...well, it's not for me anymore.<br /><br />you can find me here if you like:<br /><br /><a href="http://saltandink.blogspot.com/">http://saltandink.blogspot.com</a><br /><br />xoxo.kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-6693971222641913502013-07-07T19:26:00.001-07:002013-07-07T19:26:11.047-07:00the cushion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dciQJke5ouY/UdohkYeOctI/AAAAAAAAHn4/YHwikNkqE7c/s1600/054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dciQJke5ouY/UdohkYeOctI/AAAAAAAAHn4/YHwikNkqE7c/s640/054.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>&nbsp;i wanted to write something this morning. i know this because i dreamt of ex-friends last night. of running into them on the beach and trying to make small talk, awkward and forced. i woke up and turned on the oven, cracked eggs into a bowl. thought about cutting my hair short. between the blade and the basil, my finger inched forward.<br /><br />there is nothing like slicing a chunk of flesh to the hinge to make you forget what you wanted to say.<br /><br />what do you think of first when you hear the word 'cushion?' good, soft, comforting. someplace to rest and feel at home. or is it stagnant, sedentary, insulated, sheltered?<br />i feel like i'm living in a cushion right now. and i'm wondering how long i can sit here before i just plain can't get up anymore. how long i can lay down before it loses its shape and no longer looks pleasing.<br /><br />i'm wondering these things because i cannot even chop herbs without losing a pound of flesh.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-59409945340726862642013-06-21T09:26:00.001-07:002013-06-21T09:26:44.814-07:00palms to the sky<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RZvTdcGbYY0/UcR4ttQtpmI/AAAAAAAADrQ/G44dxNgyBnY/s1600/044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RZvTdcGbYY0/UcR4ttQtpmI/AAAAAAAADrQ/G44dxNgyBnY/s640/044.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />sometimes i think the absolute hardest thing in the world to do is to be yourself. to walk around with palms help upward rather than facing outward, away from the body. there are moments when you might be walking around, content, and then someone close to you will find something out about you they didn't know and all of a sudden you are somehow no longer the person they thought they knew and you don't fit into the story they are trying to tell. i am watching this happen in my own life right now. people i love being forced outside the lines because their colors don't fit the landscape. i hold hands with those closest to me and close my eyes because i know, for a fact, that every color that exists is a part of the whole. it doesn't make it any easier, but at least we know who we are. we are the ones who will accept you for who you are.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2A4YI5Id-_E/UcR4-KgNFBI/AAAAAAAADrk/DXGs4AI2m8E/s1600/080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2A4YI5Id-_E/UcR4-KgNFBI/AAAAAAAADrk/DXGs4AI2m8E/s640/080.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />i met a woman at ikea yesterday. i was walking around with the baby, killing time while my daughter played in the children's play area (because she absolutely loves that place) and as i was strolling through the small storage container section, i noticed this adorable pregnant woman with cutoff jean shorts and a shirt tied in a knot at her belly button. she was fit and healthy looking and for some reason i just blurted out 'you are ADORABLE' because i couldn't help myself. because she was. i remember how abnormal i felt during pregnancy. how sometimes the idea of growing a human in my body felt so incredibly unnatural that it was all i could do to run daily errands and pretend everything was normal without losing my mind. because, really, this idea that my body was responsible for housing the single most important thing in my life was a freakishly terrifying prospect. especially in those months before the baby kicked. once i felt the movement, it all seemed to make sense. in a backwards sort of way. this woman? at ikea? we ended up talking for about 15 minutes, standing among swedish design components. we exchanged phone numbers and i couldn't help but think that i was so close to just walking by her, thinking about how wonderful she looked and wondering what other's perceptions were of me at the time i was pregnant. but i blurted. and so we spoke. and now i might have made a friend. maybe not. maybe that will be the extent of our connection. but the fact remains, there was a connection made to another human being at that time. that little thread of camaraderie that happens between people who share an experience. and i have that little envelope of a memory of me just plain being myself without any reservations and i felt good. i felt connected to the rest of the people walking around me after that. i looked at them and realized we all have our stories, we all have our mornings that happened before we ended up at ikea. we all have the ways in which we cope. and we all have the aching desire to be accepted for who we are. i mean, don't we?<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4_HQPFXVlzg/UcR4_VKzKCI/AAAAAAAADrs/OQAk7prug94/s1600/085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4_HQPFXVlzg/UcR4_VKzKCI/AAAAAAAADrs/OQAk7prug94/s640/085.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />i have moments when i think there is no way in the world i am going to survive this life. there is too much beauty. too much pain. too many times when the other humans i am bumping around with are going to find something out about me and decide <i>nope. don't like that. discard.</i>&nbsp;i think i am going to have to deal with someone rejecting my children at some point in their life simply because of who they are and i have to figure out how to navigate that. because there are times, like when the douchebag in the hummer yelled at me in the parking lot because his monstrosity of a car wouldn't fit next to mine and i didn't have the foresight to pull to the side so he could pass first. there are times when someone will look at you with anger and hatred and all of the bad days in their life shadowing their eyes like a visor and simply being yourself will not be enough. i have to teach them to place those moments next to moments of rows of flowers and look at them at the same time and say to themselves <i>this. this is my life. all of it. the hummers and the flowers and the small storage and the play areas. </i>i have to teach them how to hold all of it in the palms of their hands and still walk around with a smile on their faces.<br />or maybe i have it all wrong.<br />maybe they are teaching me.kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-83604986667507329432013-06-03T15:11:00.000-07:002013-06-03T15:11:05.031-07:00just me, myself, and i.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mXPLZfy6X04/Ua0RvliuJGI/AAAAAAAADp8/ZVdka4tMMFw/s1600/018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mXPLZfy6X04/Ua0RvliuJGI/AAAAAAAADp8/ZVdka4tMMFw/s640/018.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VL-ZuGz80dg/Ua0RwXgrzuI/AAAAAAAADqE/HQFE-IaNiKQ/s1600/046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VL-ZuGz80dg/Ua0RwXgrzuI/AAAAAAAADqE/HQFE-IaNiKQ/s640/046.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2wDOpW14XLk/Ua0Rw0scmzI/AAAAAAAADqI/s7StXmD5LOc/s1600/067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2wDOpW14XLk/Ua0Rw0scmzI/AAAAAAAADqI/s7StXmD5LOc/s640/067.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />this morning was weird. there was a thread of wire between me and my words that somehow made everything sound hollow and insincere. or righteous. or convoluted. somehow misconstrued. and it must have been me. b's voice was tinged with irritation and i was defensive. and then i realized it must be me because the kids just plain didn't like me this morning. it's hard when you share an 850 sq ft bungalow with three other humans and you feel like your feelings are bumping into every wall when you are in the room. white sheet on the floor, i bowed my head.<br /><br />yesterday i was desperate for some alone time. no kids, no husband, no reason other than i needed to be alone with my own thoughts and not have to worry about communicating with anyone else for at least two to three hours. first the car died. and i felt as though the universe was trying to tell me something and i had to tell myself over and over to react as though this was not a big deal. because part of my job is to teach my children that sometimes the universe is an asshole and that is not enough of a reason to be one yourself. so i smiled, walked back in the house and made lunch for the kids while b took the car to get fixed. later, i got my two to three hours and they were decidedly less sumptuous than i had hoped. seems that getting away by myself for a bit of time didn't help all that much. because i was still there.<br />like i said, it must be me.<br /><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-29200516419189973572013-05-26T16:54:00.001-07:002013-05-26T16:59:41.717-07:00the seven year itch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0dUrcYrJC88/UaKYHhzKKHI/AAAAAAAADpg/VVyBLBt2swk/s1600/971151_10151645214479905_99940711_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0dUrcYrJC88/UaKYHhzKKHI/AAAAAAAADpg/VVyBLBt2swk/s640/971151_10151645214479905_99940711_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>on may 20th, our seven year anniversary, we woke up early. i fussed with my hair. he tied a bow tie. our kids got dressed at the last minute so they wouldn't ruin their finery. we packed the car with certificates and rings and pink peonies from trader joes. we stopped at <a href="http://www.cathrynfarnsworth.com/">cathryn's</a>&nbsp;for a quick shoot. because she is the kind of friend and photographer who is able to capture perfectly how alive you feel. so that you will see your pictures for the first time and you will start crying all over again.<br /><br />we drove to a courthouse. inside were our parents and my amazing friend, <a href="http://www.dailystaley.com/">ben</a>, there to record the day for us. we waited in the lobby with other people dressed exactly like us. some fancier. some not. i was wearing sandals. i felt the most beautiful i have ever felt in my life. the rearview mirror of youth be damned.<br /><br />we stood under an archway inside a tiny room with walls peppered with sponged on blue paint. i didn't know what side to stand on and all of a sudden i heard words along the lines of 'do you, krista, take bryan...' and i felt like a little girl in dress up clothes so i held his hands tighter. i kept my eyes on his and noticed my children in my peripheral vision, watching us, quiet. i was crying more than i expected. i was hovering over the government carpet and i willed myself back into my body because i did not want to forget what this felt like. i wanted to file it away for later so that when i need it, i can take the paper thin memory of that moment out of hiding and hold it up to the light, rub it between my fingers, inhale. <i>'i do.'</i><br /><br />seven years. and i still get fluttery when catch a glimpse of him across the room, not aware i am watching him. he has taught me through example that there is nothing more appealing and inspiring in another human being than to be comfortable in your own skin. he tells me he loves me every single day. and i do not take it for granted. every time he tells me, i acknowledge it, i hear it, i am grateful for it. and i tell him, too. so that he doesn't ever have to wonder.<br /><br />seven years and i am still surprised by him. a song he likes or a food he doesn't. and i remind myself that i cannot ever suppose to know every facet of him. that it makes me so happy for the future to know the person i am closest to in the world is still a book waiting to be read. that his chapters are still being written and that i get to see the first draft, always.<br /><br />seven years, two babies together (and his teenage son who completes our little circle), and our wedding was not the best day of my life. because this is not the peak. things are not downhill from here.<br />the best day of my life hasn't happened yet.<br /><br /><i>i do.</i><br /><i><br /></i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--Hc6KO2oLLQ/UaKh1l2eP0I/AAAAAAAADps/daOVdiKqwmg/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--Hc6KO2oLLQ/UaKh1l2eP0I/AAAAAAAADps/daOVdiKqwmg/s640/1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><i><br /></i><br /><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RWsXwXNC1O4/UaKLXHaonvI/AAAAAAAADog/juwJ3K8lvzw/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RWsXwXNC1O4/UaKLXHaonvI/AAAAAAAADog/juwJ3K8lvzw/s640/2.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LgyiScgb9wY/UaKLXzxMTDI/AAAAAAAADos/y4J-8RL78Y0/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LgyiScgb9wY/UaKLXzxMTDI/AAAAAAAADos/y4J-8RL78Y0/s640/6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M-t1HKGQETA/UaKYBBhlYTI/AAAAAAAADpU/upeIyMIYnn4/s1600/bk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M-t1HKGQETA/UaKYBBhlYTI/AAAAAAAADpU/upeIyMIYnn4/s640/bk.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(photos by <a href="http://www.cathrynfarnsworth.com/">cathryn farnsworth</a>)</div>kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-45888733582828052772013-05-11T15:13:00.001-07:002013-05-11T15:14:10.262-07:00running on couches<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZLWXOdIU1DQ/UY6-9zUghqI/AAAAAAAADoA/ijW_wgMveLQ/s1600/020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZLWXOdIU1DQ/UY6-9zUghqI/AAAAAAAADoA/ijW_wgMveLQ/s640/020.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />he runs on the couch and i panic. i see heads on hardwood floors and broken bones. i use my stern voice and he sits down quickly and then gets up and runs to the other side. as if i can't see him. this picture, in fact, was taken reflexively AS i was admonishing him to SITDOWNONYOURBOTTOM. but look at that photo. can you hear the laughter? cause i can.<br />there is so much i am afraid of. worries i stack up like cards and lay on my ribcage at night, folded. i sleep on my side and my arm falls asleep while my brain pretends. there are moments like this morning where i think i didn't sleep at all and that somehow i exited through the front door at two am and snuck back in hours later. i was everywhere and nowhere and it isn't until my daughter screams out in the middle of the night that i feel myself fall back into bed. the pillow soaked and the covers tangled.<br /><br />my five year old has always cried out in her sleep. her dreams are vivid and sometimes downright terrifying. last night there was a fly and every time she tried to shoo it away, it bit her. i gave her a drink of water and covered her with blankets. her brother didn't even stir. i crawled back to my bed and thought of my own flies. my own bites. and i tried to will hers into my head. since i don't mind smashing them away. i tried to give her chocolate fountains and princess shoes and i like to convince myself that i have the power to sway her dreams when she doesn't wake again until morning.<br /><br />last night was <a href="http://expressingmotherhood.com/">opening night for the show</a>. my piece is heavy and pretty personal but it is something i feel very good about sharing. i always try to have a reason for sharing the real stuff, you know? not just a&nbsp;narcissistic need to be heard. i really believe that sharing our stories is something that matters. when it comes down to it, there are days when all that i am holding onto is the idea that i am not alone in this bullshit. and sometimes that means sharing our stories with each other, outside of our normal circles, and listening to each other. witnessing someone speaking their truth. perhaps it is because i grew up with secrets that i have a hard time living with them now. i like to air them out. give them fresh air. so that they don't multiply and decay and ruin the foundation of things.<br /><br />this is my second round of this show. and i am unexpectedly emotional about the real and true feeling of community that has happened this time around. i can't really describe it just yet. it's scary. and liberating. and validating. and horribly vulnerable. basically, it is all the things that art really is. and it is always worth it. one end of the couch to the other.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><a href="http://expressingmotherhood.com/">*tickets for the show still available, fyi*</a>kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-25915694237854490622013-04-28T12:39:00.001-07:002013-04-28T12:42:25.492-07:00moments.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZU5-UI0kMA4/UX17mgBHFCI/AAAAAAAADm4/uvohHK3meS0/s1600/036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZU5-UI0kMA4/UX17mgBHFCI/AAAAAAAADm4/uvohHK3meS0/s320/036.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />i am constantly on the lookout for the <i>moment.</i><br />the laughter that sounds like metal bells, the smile you simply cannot stop.<br />it is the painting that makes you feel like changing your clothes, the song that sits like a breeze on your wrist.<br /><br />there are a lot of failings in my day to day it seems. the menu that didn't get cooked, the budget spreadsheet that looks much more like a rainbow than a pasture.<br /><br />i am always wishing for the pasture, it seems. sitting on top of a mountain of dirt, unsure how to plant.<br /><br />...<br /><br />i am having trouble reconciling this space with the words i want to write. see, my children are getting to the point (my daughter especially) where her experiences are not mine to share. and, in part, my reaction to them is not mine to share, either. i, of course, have things to say that don't immediately revolve around my children but those things are increasingly rare, it seems. perhaps this is normal with small children in the home. when my free time basically is taken up with work and tasks and mindless nothing. perhaps i really am one of those women who has nothing to speak of outside my children.<br /><br />(this is not true, of course. but it feels so at times. and therefore, to me, sometimes it is.)<br /><br />...<br /><br />i used to take a lot of pride in things i really had no control over. things like great skin on my legs (no marks, perfectly smooth, even tone.) now, my legs are riddled with years, creased and worn like a well used map. there are roadways and railways and bodies of water hidden just under the surface and they no longer look like a young girl. <i>you see where i'm going here.&nbsp;</i><br />this is one of those moments when you cradle your legs between your shoulders and you thank them for the years they have provided you with vanity. you sit in the ditch on the side of the road between understanding the meaning of beauty and just plain not giving a fuck and you hold out your thumb to strangers thinking that maybe you will either be harmed or saved.<br /><br />these are the moments i'm talking about.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><i><br /></i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-73498820900781200082013-04-14T22:50:00.002-07:002013-04-14T22:50:30.031-07:00miscellany.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Rm9FAxKBNn4/UWuSn5NYweI/AAAAAAAADmQ/Rfhzp5OOkA0/s1600/008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Rm9FAxKBNn4/UWuSn5NYweI/AAAAAAAADmQ/Rfhzp5OOkA0/s640/008.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />you know what i don't like? pictures of kids crying or throwing temper tantrums. i don't think they are funny and just can't seem to get behind the idea that watching children under the influence of anesthesia or the after effects is somehow entertaining. and pets drunk or high? don't even get me started.<br /><br />do you have regrets? or do you let them go? i would like to think that i live my life without worrying about the things i have or have not done and that the present is always what means most. but i would be lying to you. i have moments of regret. i suppose the silver lining is there is something of a lightbulb effect that happens during these moments. and i don't do them again.<br /><br />we are all capable of ugly. we are all deeply flawed. and we all have the capacity for change.<br /><br />my children spend a lot of time with their grandparents. and i wonder what they are going to remember about them, these versions of the people i know. i wonder about how my grandpa was my mom's dad and how there is no way we will ever know him in the same way. that we aren't supposed to. i think i am so lucky that the parents bryan and i have in our lives are who they are. that we have the friends we have. that we have each other.kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-25334115465799856372013-04-04T09:19:00.000-07:002013-04-04T09:21:59.798-07:00words like pebbles. like clay.<br />it is grey this morning and i'm on pause. i rolled up my to do list like a relic and sealed it with wax. i mean, bills are paid. deadlines are still there. but today we have no school. no doctors appointments. no house repairs. today my biggest decision is whether or not to go to the botanical gardens or the zoo. i mean, i don't like the zoo. never have. but my kids love it. then i wonder what i am teaching them if i take them there and act like a day spent watching animals in cages is fun. so there is that.<br />botanical gardens it is.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Er9rTp9007M/UV2nKIvrnVI/AAAAAAAADlg/4NbQIjDYI6w/s1600/050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Er9rTp9007M/UV2nKIvrnVI/AAAAAAAADlg/4NbQIjDYI6w/s640/050.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />one of the producers of the show i am doing in may <a href="http://expressingmotherhood.com/meet-second-time-performer-krista-knott/">interviewed me</a> and i felt...<i>important. </i>i read the article and made a cup of coffee, stared at the grounds thinking there was purpose to everything and that i sounded intelligent and like i knew where i was going on life. i had three day dirty hair and slept in pajamas on my skin but i still stood straighter and thought <i>today i'll drink my coffee black.</i><br /><i><br /></i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7qnpUe99Swo/UV2nFZUPQbI/AAAAAAAADlY/dfbRXH9H2us/s1600/036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7qnpUe99Swo/UV2nFZUPQbI/AAAAAAAADlY/dfbRXH9H2us/s640/036.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><i><br /></i><i><br /></i>my writing has been neglected lately. i have even started dreaming in script form again. this happens to me when i stop writing. my mind screams at me while i'm sleeping, throwing words like pebbles on a glassy lake. no. more like potter's clay on a spinning wheel. only, i'm not aware enough to catch it so it melts in slow motion and dries in corners. one of these days i will shape them, glaze them, fire them. i just hope they still have enough shape to hold the space.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--cwGDTEr81Y/UV2nQFRrVuI/AAAAAAAADlw/7q-cnafKI8w/s1600/052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--cwGDTEr81Y/UV2nQFRrVuI/AAAAAAAADlw/7q-cnafKI8w/s640/052.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />do you ever notice how there are people in your life who will offer you a drink of water when you didn't even realize yourself that you were thirsty? <a href="http://comesitbymyfire.blogspot.com/">relyn</a> wrote me an email asking if would guest post on her blog and i didn't hesitate. not for a second. i know a gift when i see one. <a href="http://comesitbymyfire.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-tiny-small.html">my post is up today</a>. much more like a pebble. much more like a glassy lake.<br /><i><br /></i><i><br /></i>kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-54335032050298315332013-03-24T13:25:00.001-07:002013-03-24T13:25:08.899-07:00pure gold<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u_gB6dBU9YA/UU9ctZZFVnI/AAAAAAAADks/P0dM7uA_fCE/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u_gB6dBU9YA/UU9ctZZFVnI/AAAAAAAADks/P0dM7uA_fCE/s640/005.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aTuyHwM8Nrg/UU9cuTilkoI/AAAAAAAADk0/9HwWfZD5N5Q/s1600/007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aTuyHwM8Nrg/UU9cuTilkoI/AAAAAAAADk0/9HwWfZD5N5Q/s640/007.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iWrIeY4e2WU/UU9cuXWK8ZI/AAAAAAAADk4/B4Xk7seIPbI/s1600/014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iWrIeY4e2WU/UU9cuXWK8ZI/AAAAAAAADk4/B4Xk7seIPbI/s640/014.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />yesterday was an afternoon/early evening with a friend we haven't seen in a long time. fancy cheese, crusty bread, chilled chardonnay. both kids running around, wreaking havoc and taking names. my 19 month old ate fistfuls of truffled gouda and i envisioned him a culinary genius, opening his own restaurant and saving a table in the kitchen for his parents. maybe he just likes to eat cheese, though.<br />for whatever reason, someone spelled out S-O-U-L in conversation. and the five year old, she piped in and said 'that spells soul!' we stopped and blinked. her first time figuring out a word without looking at the letters. she has been reading for weeks now but this? this was different. b was so excited her gave her a handful of chocolate chips. chocolate is gold in this household, folks. pure gold.<br /><br />and the firsts? they just keep on coming.<br /><br />you don't mind if i come and go from here, right? if i sometimes back away into a corner and let my words stack on top of each other, collecting dust and webs. i didn't think so.kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-85684947198354984912013-02-18T20:23:00.003-08:002013-02-18T20:23:37.343-08:00radio silence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uJ18pOu9H0w/USL9innIi3I/AAAAAAAADjA/vqC19DMdqqk/s1600/011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uJ18pOu9H0w/USL9innIi3I/AAAAAAAADjA/vqC19DMdqqk/s640/011.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PqpxvcPHXhY/USL9kCfVFHI/AAAAAAAADjI/dZMX3lNm6-A/s1600/025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PqpxvcPHXhY/USL9kCfVFHI/AAAAAAAADjI/dZMX3lNm6-A/s640/025.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NasV_ebXPIQ/USL9kG9kc8I/AAAAAAAADjM/GK2_n1DDynI/s1600/020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NasV_ebXPIQ/USL9kG9kc8I/AAAAAAAADjM/GK2_n1DDynI/s640/020.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QMk9eO6AT-I/USL9k_ZknzI/AAAAAAAADjY/mXSP7elyj9E/s1600/173.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QMk9eO6AT-I/USL9k_ZknzI/AAAAAAAADjY/mXSP7elyj9E/s640/173.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Hx64som4QzM/USL9vJ2YynI/AAAAAAAADjo/fGU7YqcXAGM/s1600/177.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Hx64som4QzM/USL9vJ2YynI/AAAAAAAADjo/fGU7YqcXAGM/s640/177.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />i've been feeling silent. and when i haven't, it seems my words aren't quite right. this is when the camera comes in really handy. at least there is that.kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-90399639027574068032013-02-01T13:38:00.001-08:002013-02-01T13:40:40.818-08:00sea legs.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R0wr0aAGpXI/UQwvLsYSF8I/AAAAAAAADiU/18igVzKjyUw/s1600/158.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R0wr0aAGpXI/UQwvLsYSF8I/AAAAAAAADiU/18igVzKjyUw/s640/158.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">finn got a fever. 102.5 and i could only think of emergency rooms and breathing machines and pneumonia and fear so i channeled all of that energy into a jug of vinegar and i went to town. filled the tub with vinegar and water and submerged every single toy and washed 8 loads of laundry. i sanitized every surface we touch and once bryan came home from work i ran to the store to get cat food, smelling of vinegar and sweat. there was a sewage drainage truck in the back of the parking lot and the whole entire block smelled like sulphur. i was so grateful. because at least no one could smell me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">cold baths, juice, hugs, party toast. i spent a solid majority of the morning convincing her that sick days were awesome because you could lay on the couch all day and watch movies, read books. she finally got up and painted because that is her comfort. dash's tiny fever in his tiny body went away bit by bit. he slept twice as long as usual but at least i knew his room was clean.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">eleven o-clock last night. i am on the floor wiping every block, building toy, drawer of tiny things by hand to make sure they are dry. the living room littered like a thrift store. i am tired. i look like a hot mess. i feel that sort of exhaustion that only comes when you know you have accomplished something worthwhile but you still feel like there are ten more things to do. from behind me on the couch i hear <i>i really love you. </i>and i look at bryan and he smiles. he is tired, he is fighting this illness, too.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">it is this. it is in these moments that i realize that i am with the right man. that this was what i was supposed to get from all of those fairy tales and romantic comedies. that the right man will be the one who kisses you in the rain at one in the morning on your first "date" (um, we didn't have our first real date until we had children and a babysitter) and he will be the one who will look at you with the <i>exact </i>same look on his face almost seven years later while you are drenched in vinegar and wearing the same tshirt you've worn for three days. he will tell you with regularity that he is happy, so you don't have to wonder. and he will ride the not so great days like a sailor. he will pack his sea legs for the journey.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-39894595775598275772013-01-28T22:54:00.004-08:002013-01-28T22:54:56.163-08:00five.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-moZTRiqmZWA/UQdwdOk12UI/AAAAAAAADhU/Jp8ampzVb5c/s1600/063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-moZTRiqmZWA/UQdwdOk12UI/AAAAAAAADhU/Jp8ampzVb5c/s640/063.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />tomorrow she will wake up and be 5. five.<br /><i>five.</i><br />i like to think of things in five year increments. one hand. if curled up, a fist. it is something i can understand, the palm of a hand. something i can relate to. something i can look at and think...<br />ah, yes. i remember meeting you.<br /><br />my daughter is now more her own than mine at all. i talk to her and spend the majority of my time with her and yet...i am closer and closer to knowing her less and less as time goes on. i'll never <i>really </i>know how she sees things, how she feels. i will know what i intuit, i will know what she says. i will know her through the filter of me and i know for a fact that i will be the mother who tries to understand her angst through my own. i will always feel like she is the most important girl in my life, even as my status in hers shifts and molds to her needs. i will always be her biggest fan, her biggest support. i will always be on her side. even when she draws a fence between us. for now, i will breathe in her need to be involved at all times, her need to have my attention, her need to be validated in the&nbsp;minutiae. i will look back five years from now and i will remember how we made cupcakes and i wrapped her presents to open tomorrow while she was in preschool and how she went to bed saying <i>tomorrow is going to be the BEST DAY EVER! i am going to wake up and i am going to be FIVE!</i><br /><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-18033053723833753972013-01-20T00:11:00.000-08:002013-01-20T00:14:09.839-08:0019 & 20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1POPGMFOViE/UPuh9Nydc8I/AAAAAAAADgs/py7FX8jiSow/s1600/079960e6629a11e29c2822000a1fbe4c_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1POPGMFOViE/UPuh9Nydc8I/AAAAAAAADgs/py7FX8jiSow/s640/079960e6629a11e29c2822000a1fbe4c_7.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="text-align: left;">i had a funk in me the size of california today. as in, crawl back in bed and make no decisions regarding home decor, haircuts, tattoos, shopping kind of funk. i wanted to give in, really i did. instead, i kept my date with an internet friend to meet since she was in town.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">i surprised myself, really. because meeting someone in real life that you have only ever spoken to online is a daunting prospect. maybe they aren't who you thought they would be. maybe i am not at all what they expect. maybe they are going to think i am a fucking nonsensical twit.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">you have those people in your life, don't you? the ones whose facebook/instagram/twitter profiles make them seem like witty and intelligent style icons with the coolest adventures ever. when in reality....they are batshit crazy. and desperate. and sad.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">i suprised myself because this fear (that i would be the batshit crazy, desperate, and sad person in someone's eyes) would usually be enough to keep me pinned to my couch in my worn out sweatpants watching a hoarders marathon.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">but i didn't succomb. i showered. i put on makeup. i got dressed. and i met annie. a one hour lunch turned into three hours. and it was...perfect.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">i came home to find b and the kids in the backyard. my mom had taken finn to the toy store to shop for her (almost!) birthday and she was bedecked in princess jewelry and the sweet happy that comes from spending time with mimi. we played in the dirt then fed the kids and gave them baths before my father in law came over to babysit, handing us movie tickets and money for popcorn.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">funk.&nbsp;</span>officially. gone.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-66774830501263054802013-01-17T21:42:00.000-08:002013-01-17T21:42:00.194-08:0017<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wuqIZY5NZyk/UPjYc3__-HI/AAAAAAAADgE/yjFYSwU5KIg/s1600/075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wuqIZY5NZyk/UPjYc3__-HI/AAAAAAAADgE/yjFYSwU5KIg/s640/075.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />we took a tour of finn's kindergarten today. her kindergarten where she will start school in seven months. seven. months. i feel, all of a sudden, like there are a ton of projects i need to bookmark on pinterest in order to be prepared for the transition.<br />after checking out the classrooms, we walked to the corner donut shop. we went to the library. we ate lunch. and i paused for a moment to think that never again will today happen. that soon, these little days of ours that can sometimes feel insurmountable and neverending are, in actuality, finite.<br /><br />more often than not, bryan and i scrounge for dinner after the kids are in bed. he gets home around the time the kids take a bath, after they've eaten. and lately, i cannot get it together to create a full sit down dinner for us. i make a quick dinner for the kids and either eat with them or eat random weird crap while i'm making their food. like tonight? i ate club crackers with cream cheese and cranberry compote. i mean, what the fuck kind of dinner is that? dash smeared mashed potatoes everywhere and threw his brussel sprouts on the floor. finn ate her brussel sprouts but pitched a fit when i told her she had to finish her chicken meatballs before she could have crackers.<br /><br />i wonder sometimes if i possess the ability to have any kind of conversation that really does anything. do you ever feel like that? like your voice is somehow the same octave as the wind and your words are little threads of nonsense tangled up in your fingers? surely there is a pinterest board for this.kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-51695189418575851122013-01-16T23:11:00.000-08:002013-01-16T23:11:08.687-08:0016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-36nFmNIjzQU/UPed0c1J5nI/AAAAAAAADfc/xCW6tmvvYC8/s1600/052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-36nFmNIjzQU/UPed0c1J5nI/AAAAAAAADfc/xCW6tmvvYC8/s640/052.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">sometimes all we have are our intentions.</div><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-19685099589415556532013-01-15T21:40:00.001-08:002013-01-15T21:40:07.677-08:0015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dS6m7Sg1HtA/UPY7pG9pQNI/AAAAAAAADe0/Ftv1NRU1_vQ/s1600/023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dS6m7Sg1HtA/UPY7pG9pQNI/AAAAAAAADe0/Ftv1NRU1_vQ/s640/023.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">i'd like to blame the cold weather, but let's be honest: i have reached an age where once i am home, i wear only comfortable clothes. it's oddly reassuring and yet troubling to be so cliche.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">in the last week, i read an entire novel, watched a foreign language film, made an inedible dinner that ended up in the trash, failed to shower daily, heard myself say <i>what did i JUST say?</i>&nbsp;far more often than i should have. i made plans for the future, followed through on some things, let some other things go.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">it's only wednesday.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">my son said 'mmmma' today. and it was totally enough.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-6240151788879356352013-01-14T21:01:00.000-08:002013-01-14T21:01:13.710-08:0014<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4P6PT5HWLbI/UPThCxGvL2I/AAAAAAAADeM/UMjTyKFVnzo/s1600/052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4P6PT5HWLbI/UPThCxGvL2I/AAAAAAAADeM/UMjTyKFVnzo/s640/052.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">it has been in the 30s and 40s the last few nights. this means people in los angeles are doing one of two things. they are commenting on the weather or they are commenting on all of the people commenting on the weather. i am doing both.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">i had a dream that dash's head was buried in the sand by another kid at a birthday party. i pulled him out and he wasn't breathing but he opened one eye. i had to actually get out of bed to see that he was there in order to make sure it really was just a dream. there was a moment, right before i opened the bedroom door, where i knew, for certain, that i had no fucking clue what was real and what wasn't. it only lasted half a second, maybe less, but it was there. and i have never felt so terrified and filled with hope. because i just plain didn't know.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">i do know one thing: ice cream tastes better in cold weather.</div><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-61378779498766516202013-01-13T21:02:00.003-08:002013-01-13T21:02:48.538-08:0013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RDq5Ys0vgOQ/UPONT4XJ9DI/AAAAAAAADdk/t2JFS2Dbo0g/s1600/037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RDq5Ys0vgOQ/UPONT4XJ9DI/AAAAAAAADdk/t2JFS2Dbo0g/s640/037.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">things happened and we ran errands and discussed plans for the backyard come spring. we ate some food and watched a little football. naps and diapers and battles over vegetables. some family members came to visit and brought bagels and donuts. (see: battles over vegetables.) i wore tights and swept up leaves with bryan.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">today dash said his first word: <i>da-da. </i>and he runs like drunk e.t. and hits corners while he giggles. <i>da-da! da-da!</i>&nbsp;and he kisses bryan's lips and touches bryan's beard.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">today was milestones and heath bar crunch ice cream. beards and snow white on the keyboard.</div>kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-51476019541127728242013-01-12T23:03:00.001-08:002013-01-29T09:57:34.350-08:0012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bBjdLUlFu9k/UPJasYpeBOI/AAAAAAAADc8/Zrhjy_9MPps/s1600/038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bBjdLUlFu9k/UPJasYpeBOI/AAAAAAAADc8/Zrhjy_9MPps/s640/038.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">there are little phrases and things that the kids do that i'm going to forget. so i try to write them down as often as i can but sometimes these little normal ordinary things become so, well, <i>ordinary </i>that writing them down feels self-indulgent, redundant.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">until i realize that some time has passed and that cute little phrase is nowhere to be found.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">i'm reading joan didion in bed at night and it is colder in los angeles than i can ever remember. sleeping in sweaters type of cold. tonight i wasted time on the internet watching youtube videos and reading about tragedies great and small. and it struck me that donuts are generally considered a normal breakfast food but seem an odd choice for dessert.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">i took a nap with dash today and bryan and finn let me. that's love. at one point this afternoon, bryan was explaining albinism to finn and when she asked about the eyesight he said people with albinism had a hard time seeing. <i>you mean it's all blary?</i>&nbsp;that's what she says: <i>bla-ry. </i>not 'blurry.' when she says it i think of loud drums and car horns.&nbsp;i wrapped that little phrase in my head and tucked it under my hair while i napped. thinking about joan didion and ordinary days.</div><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-61269073035755983702013-01-11T21:59:00.000-08:002013-01-11T21:59:10.253-08:0011<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-riroVb_UWYc/UPD6zNH1QhI/AAAAAAAADcM/_WoZ_OhdL_k/s1600/030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-riroVb_UWYc/UPD6zNH1QhI/AAAAAAAADcM/_WoZ_OhdL_k/s640/030.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">today feels like wishes. and silence. and cold wind with warm socks. today is full of nervous energy and smiling and laughter, loud and true. today is reflective and stubborn and smells a bit like another city entirely. today is yesterday and tomorrow. it is in between. 'literally' used in its proper form.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-66387756747227593502013-01-10T21:08:00.002-08:002013-01-10T21:11:37.415-08:0010<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F2ygCJ1tLPo/UO-cqpIA5DI/AAAAAAAADbY/LHmgjQvR8JM/s1600/007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F2ygCJ1tLPo/UO-cqpIA5DI/AAAAAAAADbY/LHmgjQvR8JM/s640/007.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">i rarely wear jewelry anymore, except my engagement ring. i never take it off but bryan tells me i'm not supposed to cook with my ring on. not if i'm going to mix things with my hands. but i do it anyway. i'm terrified that if i take it off, i will inevitably lose it. even though i am not the type of person who loses things, as a general rule.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">i had a bit of the blues today. what i like to call the 'hmphs.' we all have them, yes? days when leaving the house seems absolutely insurmountable. (if you don't have those days, don't tell me. on days like this, part of my sanity rests firmly in the ideas that we're all in this pile of nonsense together.) at one point, finn said to me '<i>yeah. i don't understand what that means. but i do GET it.'</i>&nbsp;this had nothing to do with my mental health but felt oddly on point. you know, as a general rule.</div><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-86903849535508580222013-01-09T21:57:00.000-08:002013-01-09T21:57:09.330-08:009<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Hsv3d4X7Mdo/UO5Rk8NHvuI/AAAAAAAADaw/3PWSBBnbqYo/s1600/2013-01-07+10.05.49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Hsv3d4X7Mdo/UO5Rk8NHvuI/AAAAAAAADaw/3PWSBBnbqYo/s640/2013-01-07+10.05.49.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">i caught someone today talking about my children. overheard their words without them knowing until the words were there, floating, lit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>she is amazing, fantastic...(mumble, shuffle) adorable in the way she....(walking)...so intelligent. and her little brother? ohmygod...so cute!&nbsp;</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">a little vacuum of air around my ears when i realized it was MY children they were talking about. eyes ripe and blinking.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">it is one thing for people to tell you kind things about your children. it is another thing altogether to hear someone say it when they don't think you are there.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">my daughter is back in preschool - after being home with me all last term. she has one friend in particular where they light up like sparklers when they see each other, spindly arms and jumping boots. finn made her a card today and this little girl's face exploded in excitement. <i>she's amazing, mommy. she's the bestest girl ever.</i>&nbsp;<i>i love myself so much.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">this is what she says when she is happy.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>i love myself so much.</i>&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">if i do anything right, it will be keeping that feeling so attached to her core that nothing (no friend, no lover, no struggle, no action) can take it away. if i do anything in this life, let it be keeping my children in love with themselves.&nbsp;</div><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-13365600485087971522013-01-08T22:23:00.001-08:002013-01-08T22:25:05.185-08:008<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lLrsRtdaWa8/UO0LdDwKw5I/AAAAAAAADaI/9cZGfegLyiQ/s1600/DSC00312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="454" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lLrsRtdaWa8/UO0LdDwKw5I/AAAAAAAADaI/9cZGfegLyiQ/s640/DSC00312.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />i opened my pictures folder and randomly selected. this is a photo from 2005. i look at this and remember exactly what the hair product i used to use smelled like. i drove a honda. i lived in echo park. i was an aspiring actress. (but really i was a barista who took acting classes and rarely auditioned.) i wrote in my journal every night, a pack of cigarettes and bottle of wine to keep me company. i listened to a lot of damien rice.<br /><br />this version of me is a little bottle of perfume hidden in an apothecary case. i was content in the forward motion of my life and filled with anxiety in the calmest waters. i was simultaneously incredibly independent and terrified of being (staying) alone. i had hope tempered with abject pessimism.<br /><br />i was much like me. just younger.<br /><br />i've been thinking a lot about these versions of ourselves. of trying to reconcile the many versions of me that i carry underneath my skin. it happens when i look at current pictures of myself and think <i>fuck, man. is that what i really look like? </i>sometimes, when i'm not quite awake, i think i am still the girl in the photo above. i think i have all the time in the world and that everything will magically work out one day. i think the future is something i can worry about later.<br /><br />i am too old to be so young.kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4345768262680598736.post-6643837768084808302013-01-07T22:38:00.001-08:002013-01-07T22:38:20.636-08:007<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LhgmmDhvb_A/UOu6CoQp6FI/AAAAAAAADZg/oLWDa2zGBfQ/s1600/008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LhgmmDhvb_A/UOu6CoQp6FI/AAAAAAAADZg/oLWDa2zGBfQ/s640/008.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">if i had another life to live i think i would live in france for a year. maybe two. (maybe it would turn into six and i would wax nostalgic ad nauseum after returning to california.) i would get my masters in creative writing while attending pastry school. i would join the peace corps and audition for a theater company in a major city. i would take that job as a prep cook at the vegetarian restaurant in napa valley. i would join the swim team and study classic literature and i would plant a garden in my backyard everywhere i live. i would own a dog, publish some poetry, add horticulture as a minor. i would open a bookstore and learn how to ski.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">if i had another life to live i think i would do all of those things. and then i would sit down and list everything i would do if only i lived the life i'm living now.</div><br />kristahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07862447137460152226noreply@blogger.com5